So this was Hope Springs from the outside. Pretty. A long, winding drive through woods to a sprawling complex of old, new, and middle-aged buildings. HOPE SPRINGS NURSING AND REHABILITATION CENTER one sign read; another, HOPE SPRINGS ASSISTED LIVING. A multipurpose place, then; something for everybody. Everybody who was infirm. But it was pretty, I had to admit, and clean and quiet, well tended, all you could ask for. It must be costing Sam a fortune.
He parked in a shady spot in one of the enormous parking lots.
“We don’t have to stay long,” Benny mumbled, fiddling with his seat belt. “I’m hungry.”
“You just ate.”
“My stomach hurts. I don’t feel good. I have a condition.”
“Ben.”
“I have a disease, Daddy. I’m not well.”
Sam scowled. Then sighed. Then ruffled Benny’s hair. “Okay, pal, we won’t stay long.”
Well, wait, now.
“You can tell Mom all about your birthday party-how’s that? They’ll probably have her outside today. If you like, you can play around by the lily pond-”
“Okay!”
“After you talk to her and tell her you love her and everything.”
“Okay.” He slumped again. Not for much longer, sweetheart, I told him as he opened his door and slammed it. Sam got out and slammed his door. I waited by mine, tail up, shuddering with anticipation.
“Be good,” Sam said through the four-i nch crack in my window. “We’ll be back. Be a good girl.”
What? What was this? Incredulous, I watched Sam and Benny walk up a wide, yew-bordered path to a low brick building with glass doors. And disappear inside.
No. No. I howled it, but nobody heard. I raged until my throat hurt, but nobody cared. What had I been thinking? The universe was not an orderly place. Ghastly miscarriages of justice were allowed to persist, and no wise hand balanced horrible, unnatural inequities. I was lost.
I never thought things could get worse.
“Hi, yes, I’d like to make an appointment to have my dog spayed.”
Behind Sam’s chair, I choked on a piece of empty cottage cheese carton from the garbage.
“Tuesday? Is that as soon as you can do it? Right, the holiday weekend… Okay, next Tuesday, then. Eight a.m., that’s fine.”
I ran around the chair, put my paws on his knees. No! I shook my head so hard, I hit myself in the eye with an ear. He kept talking-I started barking. No! No!
He laughed. “Yeah, that’s Sonoma,” he said into the phone. “I know. It’s like she heard us.”
The days that followed were peculiar. I would lie at the top of the stairs at night, guarding the house, and think, Well, another day gone and I didn’t run away. I could have: the basement window was still unlocked. Home alone every day, there was nothing to stop me from making a break for it. But I didn’t go. The human world was falling apart around me. Running away and reconnecting-somehow-with the real me was my only chance, but I stayed.
Why? The chances of actually making it were tiny-that was one thing. The time Sam let me go with them to Hope Springs had opened my eyes to what would really be involved, the distance, the danger, cars going sixty-fi ve miles an hour. It might take weeks, not days. I was scared.
Also, it’s hard to describe how seductive being a dog is. How tempting it was to give up. Forget who I used to be and sink into this new self, a self whose boundaries seemed to be nothing but love. To give love and get love-that was what my needs were narrowing down to. I could feel it intensifying every day. Friendship, sweetness, play, companionship-with the exception of evil Monica, that was all I cared about. Going, going, almost gone were any feelings about justice, fairness, tit for tat-and never mind anger, disappointment, umbrage, pride, ego, disapproval. Jealousy-I still had that. I wanted all the love my loved ones had. And that was a failing, but one I knew I’d never overcome. It came too naturally.
And it’s just so damn nice to be a dog. I can’t overstate the pleasures of sinking into a light doze about five times an hour. Drifting off… waking up… drifting off… dreaming… waking up… You fall into a pattern of sleeping and waking that, over time, averages out to almost constant half-asleepness (or half-awakeness) and it’s very… nice.
Another example, just a small thing, but-the game of sock. Tug-of-war, I should say, but Sam and Benny called it “sock,” as in “Want to play sock? Sonoma! Get the sock!” I tried to remind myself that tennis was the best game-Tennis, Laurie! You’re good at it, remember? Tennis is the best!-but it was hard. And face it: I got so much more joy out of sock than I ever got out of tennis.
Anyway, I didn’t leave. The days drifted by in a pleasant haze, long periods of comfortable idleness punctuated by bursts of extreme excitement-They’re home!-and profound contentment. I worried, and sometimes I had bad dreams, but time passed and it became increasingly clearer that the dog side of me was winning.
On Thursday, the principal at Benny’s school left a message on the machine that he’d been in a fight. She was sending a note home with him. She wanted to talk to Sam about it as soon as possible.
Benny in a fight? Impossible. What kind of fight? Was he hurt? No, or she’d have said, or there would’ve been something in her voice besides calm professionalism. I paced instead of napping the rest of the afternoon.
Mr. Horton came over twice to let me out, the second time in late afternoon, five or six, something like that. An amazing number of people talk out loud to dogs-you can’t believe the things they’ll say-but Mr. Horton wasn’t one of them. Where’s Sam? Where’s Benny? Why are they so late? I asked him with my best supplicant face, but all I got was the usual, “Come on, dog,” and, “Get busy.”
It was getting dark when the car pulled up. Of course the engine didn’t sound any different, and of course the doors slamming were just doors slamming-but I knew before I heard Sam and Benny’s slow, draggy footsteps that something was wrong. My sixth sense. And as soon as I smelled them, I knew what it was. Me. The scent of Hope Springs was all over them.
Sam let Benny have a glass of milk in the kitchen. I thought they’d talk, but they didn’t. How was I? Worse-I must be. Or exactly the same; that would be just as bad. So this mutual dejection that hung in the air like smoke from a grease fire was only because they’d seen me. That was all. No change. Just another soul-eroding visit to Laurie.
Benny dawdled over his milk, but didn’t argue when Sam told him to go up and get ready for bed, it was late. I usually went with Benny at those times, because of the intimacy. My little boy was never more my little boy than when he was getting into his wonderful-smelling pjs or peeing in the toilet (and on the floor) or standing at the sink on tiptoe to brush his teeth. But now I stayed with Sam, followed him when he went into the den. I wanted to see his reaction to the principal’s message.
He played it twice. His face was turned away, but everything else about him answered my question. This was the first he’d heard.
His feet on the stairs sounded like doom to me; I could imagine what they sounded like to Benny. I wanted to trip Sam, block him at the door, do something to protect Benny-but the instinct to confront him was just as strong. Sam and I went into our son’s room side by side.
He was sitting on his bed, working a puzzle. He didn’t look up, even when Sam sat next to him. “Ben.”